paint me a blue sky
by affability
Summary: It is a time filled with promises, nostalgia, glassy-eyed smiles and drinks that spill like stardust. / Or, Farkle and Riley throughout the years.


a/n: Now, these two being the new Cory and Topanga? _That_ I can see. I was very inspired to write for them so I did. Also I was listening to _Oh Darling_ by Plug in Stereo while writing to this. Give it a try; it's great. By the way, the numbers written in _Italics_ are the age Riley and Farkle are in the extract. This was supposed to be disjointed pieces of Riley and Farkle's relationship and somewhere along the way it spiraled into this. Oh well. (A virtual cookie goes to anyone who manages to spot the subtle but not so subtle _The Fault in Our Stars_ reference.)

**paint me a blue sky**  
>It is a time filled with promises, nostalgia, glassy-eyed smiles and drinks that spill like stardust.  Or, Farkle and Riley throughout the years.

. . .  
><em>seven<br>_.

When he first meets her, he decides that she is a princess.

This Farkle Minkus concludes on the first of many family dinners within the household that is often riddled with cheery laughter and bright-eyed smiles in the years to come. He is short and small and astonished by the fact that she manages to be the literal embodiment of joy without much effort; being nothing short of bright and effervescent and downright _jolly _to the bone. She is warm with merriment as she skips right over to greet him whilst he stands awkwardly by her wooden door. She grabs him forcefully by the shoulders, pulling him away from his parents and locking him in an affectionate embrace, (he soon finds that this is how practically _every_ member of the Matthews family greets one another). Slightly taken aback, he stumbles, but even though Farkle is sure that she can feel him wavering and flinching, Riley does not waver or lessen her grip for the entire time she holds him. And when she finally does release him, she grins as if she has just conquered Everest.

"Hi," he greets shyly, looking up to meet her wide almond eyes.

"Hi!" she cheers gleefully, without missing a beat.

Before he knows it, she is (quite joyously) dragging him around the Matthews' apartment and leading him to her floral bedroom, proudly showcasing the pristine Monopoly collection she recently received for her birthday before she fishes out her favorite version and asks him if he wants to play the game with her (she chooses the _Disney Princess Edition_, go figure). He looks out the door sketchily and sees his parents engaging in a conversation with Riley's parents, a conversation that is tinged with nostalgia and laughs as well as petty rivalry and decides to stay behind lest he gets consumed. Slowly but surely, he manages to restrain himself from quietly fleeing to the comfort of his parents and requesting to go home (they seem too preoccupied with having a doubtlessly inconsequential argument with Riley's parents to care, anyway) and chooses to spend the rest of the winter evening in Riley's rose-scented bedroom, dominating castles with tiny wax figures of princesses and carelessly throwing cards across the iridescent board. He soon finds that he likes her when she lets him win over and over again and shows him pictures of familial trips and summer vacations.

"I think I was five in this picture," says Riley, waving the camera film in front of Farkle's eyes. "That's my family in Philadelphia."

He raises an eyebrow, caressing the photos and watches the way she shines with pride whenever she points to a valued family member and begins rambling. He wonders if that's the way she is all the time; bright-eyed and happy and filled with all this appreciation and love. The photographs are scattered messily across her table and he stops to admire the way all of them scrawled on with iridescent crayons and magic markers, then he pauses when he comes across a photograph of a fair-haired girl with oversized sunglasses, donning a large black hat whilst tugging on her long ensemble. However, this photograph is starkly different from all the other ones. It is in pristine condition, not covered in scribbles and little lopsided smiley faces and, unlike the others, it is framed. It is perched at the end of her table, outshining the others, and when he caresses the photo frame, he listens to the enthusiasm in her voice and she squeals. "That's Maya!"

"Maya?" he questions and she nods her head excessively.

"Yup!" she states, her little mouth curving into a smile. "She's my best friend."

A silence quickly ensues as he observes the photograph quietly once again before shifting his attention to the picture beside it. It's another photo of her and Maya; the two girls are locked in an affection embrace; arms around one another tenderly, wide frozen smiles plastered over both girls' faces; the photograph is adorned with shimmering glitter and lopsided handwriting (and many, many ruby red hearts) and he notices that it was placed at the highest part of her photograph collection. He feels his heart plummet quietly into his chest as he realizes that the little blonde is in nearly every single Matthews' family photo and is present at a large number of their family vacations. His heart wrenches when he realizes that he doesn't have the kind of friendship that Riley has with Maya with anyone else; it's the first time he realizes that he is no longer content with ritzy vacations to St. Bart's and private helicopter and jet rides that he spends with his long, long list of caretakers and nannies whenever his parents are busy.

"Do you have a best friend?" she asks him, when the night is drawing to a close, when they can hear their parents toasting champagne flutes and saying goodbyes. He looks down at her carpeted floor and then meets her gaze. Her eyes are aglow with regality and gleaming with affection (no doubt, something she got from her parents). He shakes his head and watches how her face crumbles slowly in sympathy. He walks over to the seat beside her window and listens to the pitter-patter of her feet as she follows him dutifully.

"Well," she begins slowly, inching closer to him. "We can be best friends too!"

He raises his eyebrow quizzically and watches as her mouth curves into a bright grin as she tugs the end of his sleeve. "Come on!" So she dashes out of the bedroom quickly and he follows her into the bedroom that's directly beside hers. He follows her as she plays with Auggie and finds comfort in the hospitable aura that seems to linger within the Matthews' apartment and ultimately decides that she embodies eloquence and affection, as well. When Auggie falls asleep, he listens as she carefully places him in his bed and sings softly to him, her angelic voice resonating throughout the room as she brushes his curly brown hair backwards. His parents cautiously enter the bedroom and gesture for Farkle to get ready to leave.

"Wait!" she calls out, her little feet dashing to the door. "Will I see you again?"

"Yeah," he replies, allowing a smile to steal his chapped lips. "We're best friends, remember?"

Her smile is broad and brilliant and causes his heart to melt ever so slightly as he witnesses it before he leaves her apartment with his parents.

Later that night, his mother tucks him gently in his bed, telling him tales of fire-breathing dragons, heroic knights and golden-haired princesses. Her eyes twinkle under the florescent lights as she does so, ruffling his hair gently and imitating his squeals and groans. "One day, you're going to find your own princess," she tells him once the story ends, eyes gleaming with hope and cherry lips curving into a bright smile. "And she's going to as beautiful as that big ole heart of yours. Just you wait."

He quietly wonders if the dark-haired girl with rose-colored cheeks and bright eyes is his princess as his mother kisses his forehead before turning the lights off. But when she chooses to come over to his house the next day and the day after that, he feels as if he is slowly getting his answer.

It goes on from there.

. . .

_ten_

.

He climbs up her fire escape for the first time.

It is a damp October night; his eyes are glazed with heavy tears and his heart wrenches achingly in his chest as he surpasses all the other apartments. He wonders why he chooses to see the little brunette from across the street in his time of need before ultimately deciding that she is likely the only person he knows that will not judge him profusely for his fragile state. Thus, he knocks persistently against her frosty windowpane, his hands shaking and quavering as he squats persistently underneath the heavy downpour, feeling the rain pelting his shoulder blade and running down his soaked face and he wonders if she'll notice that he's crying. Farkle spots Riley at the side of her bedroom, sitting dutifully at her study table and scribbling serenely on a loose-leaf piece of paper, doubtlessly getting an early start on her homework. She catches on after the third knock, whipping her head in the other direction, her brows furrowing in confusion as she approaches the windowpane and stares out the frosty glass.

"Farkle?" she questions, voice colored with bewilderment and mouth agape with incredulity.

He looks up and meets her gaze; sees the way her eyes fill with trepidation when she catches a whiff of his glassy eyes and it's almost instinctive the way she instantaneously grabs the window and yanks it open instantaneously, grabbing his icy hands and dragging him into her well-ventilated bedroom (because Riley is physically unable to restrain herself from helping somebody else in need, Farkle is sure of this). He wriggles his way through her bedroom window, drenched in rainwater and burying his head within his hands once he lands on her seat. Wordlessly, she leaves the room and returns with towels and warm blankets, rushing to his aid and tenderly wiping away the tears that stream down his porcelain cheeks (she is devoted and gentle and_ oh so silent_ as she does this and he likes to pretend that his heart isn't melting at a thousand miles per second as she continues to caress his fingers unswervingly). She grabs his little fingers and links them firmly and chastely rubs his cheeks before hugging him firmly and forcefully and he clings onto her, breathing in her vanilla scent and biting his lower lip

"My parents," he mumbles through choked sobs, feeling her fingers rubbing circles on his back. He sniffs; shivering feverishly in his seat as she persistently continues to dry him off with the strawberry scented towel. "They had a fight—she was screaming and he was too and neither of them would stop yelling at each other," he mutters and feels the tears flow continually down his pale cheeks like an ignominious waterfall. He pauses, blows out a breath into the crisp air and attempts to compose himself. "Then I heard this loud crash before one of them slammed the door and I was _so scared_, Riley." He trembles in his seat and knows that it isn't from the overwhelming cold. "I'm still scared." His breathing intensifies as his vision blurs when a newfound wetness invades his eyes and she stops him by kissing his cheeks steadfastly in an attempt to get him to stop crying (_which works, by the way_).

"I hope you don't mind," she whispers earnestly between kisses, her voice drenched with tentativeness as she gazes into his blue eyes. "It's just that my mom always kisses my cheeks whenever I'm sad and it makes me feel better." She pauses, grabs his hands cogently and wraps an arm around him. "You'll be okay, Farkle, I promise. I'm here now. _I'll_ make this better."

For a split second he wonders how she plans to fix the situation but then she rests her head comfortingly on his shoulder and the moment is spent in stillness as he twirls the russet locks that feel like silk and honey on his skin, letting the accumulation of her even breathing and the calm raindrops against her windowpane lull him to sleep.

It is when he walks into the Matthews' living room the following morning to find Riley vehemently reprimanding his guilt-ridden parents in a series of _how could you's _and _say sorry's _that he gets his answer.

From there, he continues climbing up her fire escape and entering her window, and she willingly lets him, slowly but surely allowing him into his life. It is the age of incorruptibility, of innocence and frequent doses of snow cones and candy canes, of wide-eyed wishes to Santa Claus, of trips to the swing-set and countless beach days whereby the both of them bury one another underneath acres of white sand and indulge in spur-of-the-moment dances in the midst of the falling rain. It is a time of pure affection, of unadulterated happiness. But, it is most importantly a time when Riley unknowingly illumes Farkle's life with every single cheerful outburst and every genuine affectionate gesture and he is entirely grateful for it.

. . .

_thirteen_

_._

He feels heartache for the first time (the first of many to come) and decides that he _loathes_ it.

It starts and ends with Lucas Friar; with his idyllic boy looks and pearly white smiles, when he sashays into everybody's life and captures the attention of both Riley _and_ Maya in one swift, fluid motion. Riley is perkier now than usual at the lunch table (which is something that he never knew was possible) and her cheeks blossom into a darker shade of crimson whenever Lucas grins boyishly at her, her eyes glistening with hopefulness whenever he smirks in her direction or brushes his fingers against hers, or opts to carry her books for her to class and it aches whenever he watches the way her smile broadens and her (now merrier) laugh resonates throughout the room. He feels something parallel to his heart physically breaking in half when she looks at Lucas with tenderness and affection (because that's the way she looked at _him_, once upon a time, when life was simpler and consisted of board games and hushed promises and rainy nights in her bedroom).

So he steps his game up; he flirts with her and Maya tirelessly, spends his days climbing through her windowpane to find the blonde Hart girl sitting beside Riley, greets the both of them with a seasonal "_ladies!_" every time he sees them, grinning widely and wearing his heart foolishly on his sleeve, all the while looking at her. He follows her wherever she goes, places his arms protectively around both girls, makes it a point to dance with them at school dances and makes attempt after attempt to recapture her attention. But she just laughs him off, grins in that way of hers and lets her brown eyes lure him into culpability as she ruffles his hair or something before proceeding to change the topic.

But truly – the icing on the cake is when she eventually asks him to teach her how to flirt with Lucas and he obliges. He teaches her because he wants her to be happy, he _really _does, because she is far too warmhearted and gentle and lovely to be sad or lonely and he wants more than anything for her to be blissful all the days of her life (but he still spends his nights tossing and turning because goodness – he would like her to be happy with him, too).

"I want you to be happy," he tells her, voice hushed as he instructs her to brush her hair ever so slightly whenever she's around Lucas. "We're best friends, so that's what we do. We help each other." And then he feels a little bit like his seven-year-old self when she proceeds to thank him by kissing him on the cheek and wrapping her arms around him.

But when he dances with Maya at the school dance and glances at Lucas and Riley doing the same, he realizes that even though he wouldn't mind being with Maya, because she is luminous, smart, outgoing and so very beautiful, but he doesn't think he can look into her bright blue eyes without glimpsing shades of brown, or run his hands through her strawberry-scented blonde ringlets before them turning into dark, vanilla-scented chestnut russet curls and wonders if that's the way things are always going to be.

. . .

_fifteen_

.

He feels anger igniting his bones and infiltrating his lungs when he least expects it.

The four of them have left the soothing, protective gates of middle school with broad grins and hopeful smiles (a mishmash of linked arms and wistful hugs and Mr. Matthews deciding to give long-winded speeches) and all of them join high school together. He assumes it will be a much bigger, widely-spread carbon copy of their middle school lives, but he is gravely proven wrong on the first day—Riley effortlessly captures the attention of the senior boys and football captains while Lucas gets consumed in sports and Maya begins indulging in creative arts. They all still make an effort to remain as close as they once were, but he feels blood boiling underneath his skin whenever he sees another ill-intentioned boy leaning against the locker beside her or whenever he sees a new unfamiliar face swinging their arms around her shoulders at their lunch table. He feels his heart wrenching with sorrow whenever he sees her balling her eyes out on Maya's shoulder (because her heart was far too big and beautiful to fathom the idea of anyone intending to break it) and he watches the way she stutters and when he climbs over her fire escape only to see her awash in tears and tissues, he gently lets himself in and wordlessly places to arms around her, pulling her to his chest and stroking her long brown curls. It happens more than he'd like it to and even though he's more than willing to be there for her, it disheartens him completely to see her scarred and broken before him, in the same room where she was once bright and lively.

But now, she frequents his room more often, finding a spot on his bed and casually going on impromptu movie marathons. He recalls her falling asleep on his chest, on the crook of his neck and recalls the way he'd feel her heart racing excessively against his when she hugs him (however he suspects that it is simply his imagination playing cruel tricks on him).

"Riles," he tells her one night, feeling the weight of her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're around."

"I'm glad you're around too." And he can hear the smile in her voice.

But he wonders if his newfound protectiveness over the brunette teen is due to the fact that he somehow manages to fall deeper into an abyss of affection towards her with each passing day. It happens when her angelic-like appearance starts appearing at every place possible; his dreams, his nightmares, his thoughts. She unknowingly consumes him and it happens gradually, like soft, summer rain; without prior notice. However he thinks that the most galling thing of all is that he was unable to foreshadow it (he has always known that he liked her, known that he'd always like her, but he never expected to fall in love with her). The very thought causes the blood under his pale skin to boil, to simmer continuously with rage and anger because damn it; he understands, on some level, feeling these emotions but his failure to predict it is just all the more disappointing. But _goodness_, she's like the sun—she's tall and luminous and brightly-edged, glowing with radiance and naivety from head to toe, her long list of ex-lovers all bouncing off her fingertips, the foolish fantasies she continues to believe in bouncing off her petal-like mouth as she insists that love _does_ exist and that she _will_ find it (and he refrains from telling her that you don't find love, it finds _you_, because he does not wish to engage in yet another heated argument).

So he throws an arm around her whenever a guy gets a little too close, and whenever someone brushes her hair out of her face, he turns around and circles her waist because he recognizes the look they all have in their eye when they look at her (and it infuriates him to the bone when they brush her off and describe her as 'hot' because she's not a digit on a thermometer for goodness sake—she's extraordinary beyond realization and he tries and tries to get her to see that).

So on the day before her birthday, he takes her for a ride on his father's helicopter.

It is nothing short of thrilling; seeing the way her bright eyes shimmer with delight as she gazes out the window and gapes at the view, her pale fingers that are wrapped in dainty black lace gloves etch patterns on the frosty glass as they soar above Manhattan. Her expressions are dream-swept as she stares, bright hazel eyes glistening as they whizz past fluffy white clouds, her grip on his hands tightening joyously every time they swerve through the atmosphere and she squeals with every dunk. Once they swerve higher into the atmosphere, he finds time to watch the way her breath gets caught up in her throat every time she attempts to speak, words choked within wide smiles as her almond eyes are glued to the masterpiece ahead of her. She is incandescent with beauty, luminous with joy, inches of happiness is etched across her bright smile. "Farkle," she whispers, voice tinged with awe. He feels his heartbeat soar, his name on her lips lingering throughout the air as she continues staring out the window in awe, her breath warm against his cheek as she leans against him.

"Happy birthday, Riles," he tells her, his timorous voice breaking ever so slightly as he feels her pulling him into an affectionate embrace. He relaxes into her enthralling scent, feeling her luscious russet curls fumbling against his pale skin once again before she decides to pull apart. However, even when she wiggles out of the hug, she continues to smile.

"I never want to forget this," she states determinedly, her irises reflecting the explosive rays of yellow, reddish-brown, orange and gold that illume brilliantly across the skyline. "I want to remember this view forever."

He pauses, spots the camera at the end of the line and runs towards it, stumbling slightly in the process as he bends over to hold it up in his hands. Her brows furrow, perplexed, until she sees him holding the camera up to his marine eyes. It is only then that she realizes when he is doing and proceeds to offer him her widest, toothiest grin whilst throwing her arms up jubilantly into the air.

The flash goes off as the sun disappears underneath the horizon, but her smile remains unwavering in the midst of it all, her voice echoing throughout his thoughts consistently.

"Thank you."

. . .

_sixteen_

_._

His first fight is over her (go figure, right?).

It is at Maya's birthday party; whereby she and Maya are joyously dancing on tabletops, her running around sporting the pink cowboy hat Lucas gifted Maya hours ago with, the two of them callously dancing throughout the iridescent dance floor. He laughs heartily throughout the occasion, links arms with Lucas, Maya and Riley, confetti in all of their hair and blurred visions, toasting the day away with glasses filled with effervescent drinks, all bright-eyed and giggly. It is a hodgepodge of inside jokes and genial laughter, completed with extensive tales of mischief and mayhem as they are reminded of his days in elementary school with the same incandescent people he is with that night. As the event draws to a close, he goes over to get drinks whilst Maya and Lucas decide to go to their respective restrooms and Riley chooses to stay on the dance floor with Missy. He dismisses the unlikely pair and grabs a plastic red cup before filling it with fruit juice, serenely quenching his thirst on the sidelines until a piercing yelp occurs from the dance floor.

"C'mon, baby," a distinctively male but entirely unfamiliar voice resonates throughout the room. "Let's dance."

"Tyler," she hisses firmly, visibly struggling under his grip. "Not now."

He catches the alarm in her tone and looks up to see the pair, instantaneously recognizing the tall male beside Riley. It's none other than Tyler Sanders, the guy who sits two rows ahead of him in AP Calculus.

"Riley," he insists, drawing her closer. She flinches.

"No!" she orders, squirming. "Let me go."

Farkle stands up instantaneously, storming over to the middle of the dance floor, grabbing the two by the arm and removing his grip on Riley. "Get away from her," he tells him, his voice low and composed.

"Yeah?" says Tyler, all raised eyebrows and half-smirks. "I think that's up to her to decide."

"It is. And she's made her decision; she doesn't want to. She said no."

"Please," he snickers, grabbing Riley by the waist and drawing her closer. "She doesn't mean it."

"She said no. No means no."

"It's her way of flirting. I mean, _look_ at her." He grins slyly in her direction. "She's clearly been through this before. She's had her fair share of guys. All she needs is one more and she'll—"

Farkle does not know the nature of the thoughts that are currently clogging his mind as he decides that punching Tyler Sanders square in the face is the reasonable thing to do. The only thing the brunet truly knows is he feels overwhelmingly indignant, feels vehemence surging through his entire body as he furrows his eyebrows together and swings his fist towards Tyler's toned jaw robustly, knocking him back a few quarters. "She was not _flirting_," he snarls, glaring daggers as he watches as the redhead stumble. "She is made a _statement_. She said no, now you respect that and leave it." A clearly perplexed and deferred Tyler blinks owlishly before charging unwaveringly towards Farkle. Thankfully, he is quickly restrained by the two larger security guards that intervene in the nick of time, dragging a squirming Tyler out of the building. Farkle heaves out a sigh of relief and looks up, only to find curious onlookers staring right back at him: Maya's eyebrows are raised in a concoction of alarm and pride, Lucas is rubbing his hand on his neck, all the while nodding serenely in Farkle's direction.

"Good job, Farkle," Maya commends, bright-eyed. "I never liked that kid." She looks over her shoulder and waves tauntingly at Tyler, smirking. "But, um, why did you pound him to the ground?"

"Yeah," Lucas concurs. "Why did you?"

"He was messing with Riley and—" he stops midsentence, shooting his head up in realization.

_Riley_.

He looks around the room upon becoming conscious of the fact that the dark-haired girl has vanished. "Where's Riley?"

The Friar boy and the Hart girl shrug in unison.

"Wasn't she with you?" questions Maya, voice high with alarm. "I'll go find her."

"No," interjects Farkle, already halfway out the door. "I'll do it."

. . .

He does find her, after a series of running through rooms and yelling her name into the air. He finds her in the parking lot after a good hour; spots her under the moonlight, propped against his car with messy ringlets and flushed cheeks that are tainted with rivulets of long-winded tears. He walks towards her tentatively, leaning beside her and looking up at the hazy starless sky. She sniffs, crossing her arms slowly as she opts to lean her head timidly on his shoulder. He rests his head against hers and stands indistinctly within the stillness of the nightfall.

"I'm sorry," she blurts. "I didn't mean to just leave. I was scared."

He nods. "It's okay, Riley. He's not there anymore."

She examines him with her wide eyes, chewing on the insides of her mouth. "You fought him, didn't you?"

He pauses. "Someone had to."

"You're always helping me," she whispers. "Why is that?"

"Somebody's got to," he counters. "Riles," he begins. "He doesn't deserve you."

"Do you care about me?" she questions, her voice in a hushed whisper. "Because I care about you, you know. A lot."

"Riley, what kind of question is that? You know I do." He tightens his grip on her hand. "We're best friends, remember?"

"That's not what I meant," she says, voice gentle as she blows out a breath into the air. She traces patterns with her free hand across the frosty windowpane. "Do you _care _about me?" Her eyes glisten when she stares at him once she finishes before pressing her lips together fearfully.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion as he turns to stare at her, meets her gaze, and feels his heartbeat accelerate when he realizes what the intention behind her words. A silence ensues as she continues staring aimlessly outside the window, her steady breathing invading his surroundings. He pauses, considers his words, as he drives to a dead-end street and stops in the middle of the road. He feels her flinch in uncertainty, perplexed and bewildered as she meets his gaze.

"Riley," he begins, voice etched with candor, steadily breathing in as he attempts to compose himself. "I never thought it was physically possible for me to care about anyone the way I care about you." Then he pauses, looks up to see her reaction. She's looking at him with those brilliant almond eyes of hers, the same almond eyes that captured his attention nearly eleven years ago, the same almond eyes that stared into his soul and bore their way into his thoughts and bewitched every fiber of his being. He sees her biting fretfully on her lower lip and she takes slow, steady breaths. He knows she's nervous. "You're always saying these crazy things I never understand, you're always filled with all this hope and passion, you're always bright and bold and you always speak your mind and I think that's beautiful." He watches the way her eyes glimmer and captures her other hand. "I think _you're_ beautiful."

She's far too quiet for the first few moments, eyes glued to their intertwined hands. "You've always been there," she remarks, her voice unusually intimate. He nods.

"And I always will."

She inches closer, her eyes glimmering as she plays with his fingers. "This is _strange_," she manages, her voice still uneven and her breath caught in choked sobs and he allows a small smile to steal his lips as he looks at her and brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Life is strange," he replies, as a matter of fact. She chuckles.

"You sound like my dad."

"A slightly troubling correlation, but I'll take it."

So she leans in and embeds her lips onto his. Her enthralling vanilla-scented fragrance surrounds the air in the feel of her cherry mouth, ultimately blurring his thoughts. He cups her cheek, feeling the warm rush of his skin against hers that he knows all too well on the frosty winter night. But, really, he thinks the best part is when they return to the bar arm-in-arm in the midst of curious onlookers, her with tousled hair and him with smudged lipstick on his collarbone because for the first time in a while, he feels alive.

. . .

_seventeen_

.

"If I was a metaphor, what would I be?"

These are the first words he asks her when she hops cheerfully into his bedroom, her wine-colored cheerleading uniform glistening as the orange sunbeams kiss her glowing skin. He has set aside his bookmarked poetry book to meet her brown-eyed gaze; she's wearing the same pair of rain boots she owned as a high school freshman (granted, they were a tad too big for her at that age, albeit that didn't stop the dark-haired teen from wearing them) and she has an ivory daisy tucked carefully behind her left ear. She shrugs, turning back to the words of Shakespeare as he slides in the disk into the DVD player while she turns the projector in his room on. She callously jumps onto the edge of his bed, tugging on his sleeve out of childhood habit.

"An unlit cigarette," she jokes in nonchalance, earning an indignant slap on the arm from her boyfriend. She grins cheekily.

"I'm _serious_," he insists. "You told Lucas what he would be if he was a metaphor."

"I have?" she questions, voice soaked with incredulity. He nods vigorously.

"You have," he states, prodding her gently with an index finger. "Last year."

"I don't recall."

"You called Lucas a firefly."

She pauses and ponders over this for a second, doubtlessly recalling the moment she compared the Texan boy to a firefly during Poetry Night at school. "Oh."

"Extensive vocabulary you've got there."

"Farkle," she says, placing the DVD cover aside and staring straight at him. "Do you remember when we were seven and spent our summer with my grandparents in Philadelphia?" He nods slowly, not following. She continues regardless. "Do you remember how every single night, without fail, we would beg my parents to let us catch fireflies in our little jars and how we'd stay up and tried to catch every single one?" He nods once more. "Remember what you said when my dad asked us why we wanted to catch so many?"

"Yup," he replies. "I said we wanted to catch as many fireflies as possible and bring them back home so we wouldn't run out of wishes."

"Right—because we believed they were magical." She pauses, examining his expression. "Do you still believe they're magical?"

"Of course not," he responds instantaneously. "We were kids. We didn't know any better. We thought the light was produced magically but then we grew up and learned that it's a chemical process, everything is prearranged and formulaic."

"Exactly my point," says Riley, leaning against the wall and propping her feet up. "When I met Lucas, I thought I loved him. Heck, I told Maya I loved him _every day_ because I believed he was magical; like something out of a fairytale. But as I grew up, the magic faded. He's still amazing, don't get me wrong, but he's not mystical and mysterious—he is Lucas. It's like a firefly is just a firefly now, nothing more and nothing less." She blows out a breath. "Lucas is my firefly in the same way Maya is yours." With that, she redirects her attention to the projector and continues to watch the movie. She appears to be lost in a train-wreck of thoughts as she stares intently at the screen.

"What's the difference between the two of us, then?" he questions, because he can't help himself. "You know, you met me when you were a kid, too, Riley. Does that make me a firefly too?"

"You're no firefly," she tells him, whilst he raises an eyebrow. "You're more like oxygen."

"Oxygen?" he questions, incredulous. "Okay, Riles, I know your favorite subject is Chemistry, but that's a bit much."

"Farkle," she says, grinning. "You're oxygen because no matter how young I was, or how old I get, I always needed you and I'm always going to."

She taps her fingernails against the hard cover of the DVD, her almond irises are glued to the floor, and then she looks up once again and smiles at him one more time before turning back to the film. The subtlety speaks volumes and they continue watching the movie. Except – this time, his fingers manage to find its way through the spaces between hers, linking them firmly together as the movie continues. He smiles as he feels her resting her head subtly on his shoulder and rests his head on top hers. They continue in comfortable silence – smiling and laughing at the appropriate scenes, until the movie is done and her mother awakens and announces that it's time for dinner.

"Riley?" he asks timidly, looking over at the small brunette. She looks up and meets his gaze.

"Yeah?" she questions, smiling innocently. He takes a deep breath.

"You're my oxygen too."

"Good," she says, in between kisses, "Because I'm running out of breath."

. . .

_twenty-three_

.

He finds photographs of the two of them scattered on her vanity table in their apartment, each one depicting a different tale.

There is a singular photograph of her grinning at him, her irises glistening as her petal-colored mouth juts forward into a pout as she holds her combat boots in the air, her dainty feet teetering on the edge of the tabletop of the bakery. There is one of her teaching him how to play the guitar, him raising an eyebrow at her as hers are furrowed in a frozen minute of frustration, her fingertips grappling at the delicate strings. There are three more photos of them together, one of the both of them hugging Lucas simultaneously on his birthday after gifting him with a brand new baseball bat, another one of the two at one of Maya's (many) showcases at the neighborhood art gallery and a final one at their high school graduation. He remembers her squeezing his hand as he prepared to go onstage to deliver his valedictorian speech, recalls the way his eyes flashed with fear and how Maya lifted his spirits with hugs and words of encouragement (well, that and a miniature lunch box that had contained samosas from her mother's diner). He whips out his own picture of the two of them, her arm tightly around his waist and his around her neck as they stand outside of their university together on their first day, all sunshine-filled smiles and frozen laughter before she kisses him in a way that lingers throughout his mind before proceeding to place her feather-light hand in his. He grins at the memory.

_No regrets_, he decides.

. . .

_twenty-five_

.

The cadenced rattle of the chimes above the church rings clear like bluebells.

It is a day filled with promises, nostalgia, glassy-eyed smiles and drinks that spill like stardust. It is a day filled with paroxysms of jubilation, of long-winded speeches and echoes of congratulatory hugs. Sunlight sheds past the crystallized window and makes its way through every inch of the well-ventilated room. Riley looks stunning from afar, dressed from head to toe in a silk organza white dress that looks exquisite against her alabaster skin. She chews on her lower lip as she floats down the aisle tensely, arm-in-arm with her teary-eyed father who whispers continually in her ear and causes his daughter to flash him one watery smile after another. Once she's arrived to the front of the altar, she kisses his cheek gently and makes her way up, taking slow and steady breaths. When she looks up, he sees that her long brown hair is tied up like a dark-haired halo around her head as her almond irises glisten underneath the florescent lights behind an extended, lucent ivory veil. He watches the grin that incontestably steals her rose-colored mouth the second she meets his gaze and he beams readily in return.

_This is it_.

"I do," she says.

"I do," he choruses.

And the crowd erupts in an explosive round of applause as he kisses her after they say vows that are etched with promises of forever with watery grins and choked laughter.

The rest of the night is filled with cheers, hollers and a multitude of rainbow-like arrays of confetti. She spends time toasting with fellow schoolmates and cheering wildly when she joins Maya in the chorus line. All four friends dance giddily in the middle of the dance floor, sliding and sashaying through the room in between outfit changes and chewing on food. He is instantaneously reminded of his school days, the days whereby the four friends stuck by one another in spite of drowning in interminable, ceaseless seas of homework and after-school activities. He grabs her hand and spins her around, grabbing her when she teeters off the edge of her heel and falls into his arms, all the while high and giggly and as starry-eyed as ever.

He wouldn't have her any other way.

. . .

_twenty-seven_

.

Sarah Minkus is born on exactly six o'clock on the fourteenth of December.

He's beside her as she's sits on the hospital bed, out of breath and tired (and he's kissing her forehead and interlocking their fingers reassuringly as it goes on). He pushes her long locks behind and continually whispering in her whileand she looks up at him motionlessly and offers him a smile as his grip tightens on her hand. He watches as the woman that's donned in blue entirely arrives, cautiously cradling the baby as she makes her way over to them.

The nurse leans forward and places their little girl carefully in Riley's arms, and the brunette has the widest grin he's ever seen plastered on her face as she holds her crying child for the first time. "Here you go," she says, her smile sweet and knowing as she stares at Farkle. "You can tell that she has your eyes." The two are uncharacteristically quiet throughout everything; staring at their daughter's bright blue eyes and reddish pink cheeks through watery smiles, he gripping her hand slightly as Mr. and Mrs. Matthews enter the room, grinning wildly and doting over their first grandchild.

Maya and Lucas come in soon after, both still the same wacky pair they were all those years ago, her pausing ever so often to make jabs at him while he returns the favor. Maya's still as effervescent as she was in school, the same kind of cheery as she is with Riley. Her humor has stayed the same throughout the years, it still consists of pointed jokes involving Lucas and his Texan heritage as well as colorful nicknames that range from adaptations of child TV shows to heehaw-like dance moves, but Riley interjects by announcing that she and Farkle have decided to allocate both her and Lucas as their daughter's godparents. Her smile now is more tangible in a way—softer, sweeter, and her laughter is timely and sweet, full of love and acceptance when she carries her for the first time, bringing her out of the room to allow her worn out best friend to rest in peace. During the coldness of the October night, she shivers underneath her clothes and he wraps his arm around her shoulder, squeezing her hand.

"She's beautiful, you know," she mutters sleepily, her bloodshot eyes fluttering as she faces him sideways on the hospital bed. He nods.

"She sure is."

"I think her eyes will stay blue."

"I think so too," he says with a smile. She yawns.

"Farkle?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," she mumbles, all dazed smiles and giggles. He kisses her forehead.

"I love you, too," he replies, voice hushed. She smiles.

It goes on from there.

. . .


End file.
